In the heart of a dense jungle, where towering trees formed a canopy of emerald green and golden sunlight danced through the leaves, a tiny baby monkey was born. His fur was soft and fluffy, his eyes wide and innocent, filled with the wonder of a world he had just entered. He should have been safe in his mother’s warm embrace, nestled against her chest as she groomed him with love. But fate had been unkind to him.
From the very beginning, his mother seemed different. Unlike other monkey mothers who held their babies close, cooing and caring for them, his mother barely looked at him. The first few days, she tolerated his presence, but soon, something changed. She pushed him away whenever he tried to cling to her, her sharp nails scratching his fragile skin. His tiny hands reached for her desperately, his soft cries pleading for warmth, but she ignored him.
The baby monkey could not understand. His instincts told him that she was his mother, that she was supposed to love him. He watched as other baby monkeys nestled into their mothers’ arms, receiving gentle nuzzles and protective hugs. He saw them play, their mothers watching over them with patience and care. And yet, when he reached for his own mother, all he received was coldness.
Days passed, and hunger gnawed at his tiny belly. He tried to latch onto his mother, searching for milk, but she shoved him aside roughly. His body hit the hard ground, pain shooting through him, but worse than the pain was the heartbreak. His whimpers turned into loud cries, echoing through the jungle, but no one came to comfort him.
He became weaker as time went on. His fur lost its softness, his ribs began to show beneath his thin skin. He still followed his mother, his little feet stumbling behind her, hoping that one day she would change her mind and love him. But she grew more impatient, her rejection harsher. She swatted at him when he got too close, sometimes even biting him. The other monkeys in the troop saw what was happening, but they did nothing. They were used to the ways of the wild—some babies were just unlucky.
One afternoon, the baby monkey found himself alone. The troop had moved on, but his mother had left him behind. He let out a wail, his tiny voice filled with desperation. His small body trembled as he searched the trees, hoping to see her familiar shape among the branches. But she was gone.
Tears rolled down his face as he curled up beneath a tree. He was too young to survive on his own. His stomach ached from hunger, his heart ached from rejection. He sobbed, his cries shaking his little body, but the jungle had no sympathy. The wind rustled through the leaves, the birds continued their songs, and the world moved on without him.
As night fell, the jungle became colder. Strange noises surrounded him—growls, rustling leaves, distant howls. Fear wrapped around him like a heavy blanket. He wanted his mother. He wanted warmth. He wanted to feel safe. But there was nothing except the cold, the darkness, and his loneliness.
Would she ever come back for him? Would she ever love him?
The baby monkey let out one final cry, a heartbreaking sound filled with sorrow. But the jungle remained silent. And he realized, for the first time, that no one was listening.
